He who Bends Time-Chapter 67 - Hot, I’m not

"Robbing and threatening ... it’s all I’ve ever known," Octo muttered. "I just went with it without thinking too much."

After that, a long silence settled between them.

The old man didn’t say a word. He simply sat nearby, sipping from a small cup filled with some kind of dark liquid. The quiet was broken only by the occasional groan of pain from Octo, and the soft sound of the old man taking slow sips.

The silence lingered until the old man finally finished his drink.

He stood up without a word, disappeared into the back room, and returned moments later holding a bottle—thick and old-looking. Uncorking it, he sprinkled a fine, shimmering powder over Octo’s battered body.

As the dust settled, Octo’s injuries twitched and shifted. His wounds began to mend, but only slightly— because the old man did not sprinkle much.

"Pixie dust...?!" Octo gasped, staring at the faint glitter now resting on his skin. "That’s rare! How the hell does an old man like you have something like this?"

The old man grunted and replied flatly, "I run an antique shop. Everything here is rare—and valuable."

Then, without warning, he pulled something from behind the counter.

Clink.

It was a chain. And with a quick tug, something cold tightened around Octo’s neck. freeweɓnovēl.coɱ

"Huh?"

It was only then that Octo realized what it was—a collar. A thick metal one, like something used to restrain a wild animal.

"Let’s go," the old man said calmly, giving the chain a firm pull.

Octo tried to resist, planting his feet and gritting his teeth—but it was useless. The old man’s strength ignored his efforts completely, dragging him forward like a disobedient dog on a leash.

"What the hell is this...?!" Octo shouted, shocked and humiliated.

But the old man didn’t even glance back.

"Tch... Damn it, where the hell are we going?" Octo snapped, cursing as the chain around his neck tugged again.

"To teach you new things," the old man replied calmly.

Eventually, they arrived at the Lesser Arena, a run-down battle venue often used for training or underground matches. Still confused and sore, Octo barely had time to understand what was happening before the old man gave him a hard shove—sending him stumbling onto the stage.

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Now leaning against the iron fence surrounding the arena, Octo let out a long sigh, burdened by the weight of his misfortune.

"Just what is that old man...?" he thought bitterly. "To beat me—someone almost at the Forging Stage—as if I were nothing more than a stray dog..."

While his thoughts wandered, his eyes scanned the stands and locked onto the old man... and something else that made Octo shiver.

"Is that... a new staff?"

Indeed, the old man now held a brand-new, polished staff. When their eyes met, the old man gave Octo a little wave—then promptly smacked the staff against his own hand.

A clear threat:

Lose this match, and the staff’s next target would be you.

"Ugh... I can’t lose."

Instinct and desperation kicked in, replacing his hesitation with a flicker of determination.

His opponent—a man not unlike Octo himself—was also a stray magician, though one focused on body enhancement magic, specifically to strengthen his fists. From the look of it, he was a newly-advanced Bond-Stage magician.

Once again, the opponent rushed at Octo. Up until now, Octo had refused to fight back during the match, and the man had started to believe he was just wasting his time. But this time... it felt different.

As the opponent lunged forward, Octo’s hands suddenly gleamed.

Sharpened.

In a flash, Octo dashed forward—his speed catching the other man off guard. In one swift motion, he drove a sharpened strike directly into the opponent’s right arm, piercing it cleanly. Then, with a brutal follow-up, he kicked the man back across the stage.

The pain and shock overwhelmed his opponent, who collapsed to the arena floor, unable to continue.

"The winner is... Octo!" the announcer called out as the metallic cage around the arena lifted with a creaking groan.

Back at the edge of the arena, the old man handed Octo a single area crystal—a reward for the win.

"Good job. You found your opponent’s weak spot and used it. Efficient."

Octo glanced down at the crystal in his hand... then looked at the bag full of them the old man had just collected from the battle announcer.

"What are you looking at?" the old man snapped. "This is compensation for all the damage you did to my shop. Considering the antique items you broke—and your own staff that got shattered—this isn’t nearly enough. So we came here to earn more."

"Let’s go. It’s a hassle, but I’ll teach you a few things. If I want to make money off you, you’ll need to win every round," the old man added as he turned and walked away, dragging Octo behind him—who was now holding back tears.

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. . . . . . . . .

Ugh...

From unconsciousness, Nimuk slowly regained awareness. The first thing he saw was a confused blur in front of half-lidded eyes—until he realized he was actually hanging upside down.

"Ugh... bastards. After beating me unconscious, they strung me up here?"

He looked around, trying to make sense of his surroundings. It was a cramped, makeshift space beneath a dilapidated hut. The roof above him was poorly constructed—parts patched with glass, others covered with dusty, torn cloth. Judging by the noise and occasional footsteps beyond the hut, he figured he was somewhere in an alley, with a view of the busy street just beyond.

Now and then, people walking by glanced in his direction—but they all ignored him, pretending not to see the man hanging in the shadows.

"You ugly freak, don’t ever show your damn face in these streets again!"

Those words—spoken by the man who had hit him the hardest—echoed in Nimuk’s mind like a curse.

"Am I not beautiful? Not even handsome enough for one woman to love me?"

The question hurt more than the wounds. He muttered to himself in a bitter whisper.

"This is hard to bear."

He quietly sobbed, trying to soothe the ache inside, then began struggling against the chains that bound and suspended him.

Ugh!

He tried to lift himself, but all he managed was to shake the hut, which caused some of the roof’s pieces to fall. One shard of glass came crashing down dangerously close, but missed him—barely.

"Tch... If they didn’t want to see my face around here, then why the hell did they hang me right here in plain view?" he cursed aloud, frustrated.

At that moment, something caught his eye: a glint of light. It came from the glass shard that had fallen earlier. It reflected light from the blessing crystal, and the ray landed directly on his face. At first, it only blinded him slightly, but as the seconds passed, the heat from the focused light grew intense—unexpectedly so.

"It’s hot..." he muttered through clenched teeth, wincing.

Then he went quiet, expression twisted in resentment.

"And apparently, I’m not," he said bitterly.

His mind flashed to the faces of those fake, pretty boys—those so-called handsome guys, always surrounded by women—and the ones who beat him down as if his existence itself was an offense.

This content is taken from (f)reewe(b)novel.𝗰𝗼𝐦